The butterfly with knives for wings,
she stings far more than she sings,
and her colours are pronounced because she's chosen to never hide.

A yellow stem, birthing her blend to the sunshine,
lively and fiery, an embattlement of emotions and potions,
the soul of a bird who no longer gives way to commotions.

Behind her, are her eyes, because that presence never hides,
fading like before, are only the flowers and green vines,
moving perpetually forward, her fury is now kind.

Give them peace, write them lines,
float amongst the beasts, let death be an unthought of rind,

Let wings flutter, be in who the ever-working bees confide.